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CHICAGO: 
MORRILL, HIGGIN8 & CO. 




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<?Iara Doty Bates 



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From Heart's Content 



FROM HEART'S 
CONTENT. 



BY y/" 

CLRRR DOTY BATES 



2 1892 






CHICAGO: 

MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO. 



\%^nA 



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OOPYBIGHT 



MORRILL, HIGGINS & CO. 



DEDICATION. 



/^^NCE a dear house, beloved of pink sweet- 
^^ brier, 

Beloved of woodbine, too, and then of fire ^ 
Spread over you its blessed, sheltering eaves ^ 
To whom I bring my handful of song-leaves — 

A single handful. Now another roof 
Green, and with granite gables, low, aloof 
Is earth-home for you through the flying years ^ 
To whom I bring my hearts love and my tears. 



INDEX. 



Proem: Achilles, with his Wounded Pride 9 

White Violets 11 

Dandelion Fashions 12 

Caprice 14 

Wake Robin 15 

The Blue Bird 16 

Traverse Trailing Arbutus 18 

A Fairy Story 22 

Poke Bonnets 25 

The Lilac 27 / 

The Miracle 29 

The Dearer Land 31 

The Mystic Voice 34 

Heyday, Violet 36 

The April Shower 40 

A Hyacinth Bulb 41 

An Easter Flower 43 

The Flax Belle 45 

A June Merchantman 47 

The Poppy 49 

The Bobolink 51 

The Spinner 53 

The Weather Prophet 55 

The Chimney Swallows 57 

The Rushes 59 

The Water Lily 62 

By the Brook 64 

The Spider Web 66 



INDEX. 

A Fantasy 68 

June 70 

The Fireflies 71 

The Wasp's House 73 

Morning 76 

Harvest Moonshine 78 

Clad in Gray 79 

The Quail 81 

Grass Gipsies 83 

On an October Thistle 85 

The Cricket's Tale '. 88 

Meteors 91 

Fringed Gentians 92 

Indian Summer 94 

The White Deer , 96 

Golden Rod 97 

"Thistle Down 99 

A Foggy Morning 100 

October 102 

Autumn Rain 104 

Hoar Frost 106 

Autumn Sunset 109 

A Twilight Mouse 110 

November , 113 

Dark Days and Fair 115 

The Squirrel's Wigwam 117 

The First Snow 120 

The Robin's Farewell 122 

The Four Winds 125 

Sundown 127 



PROEM. 



ACHILLES WITH HIS WOUNDED 
PRIDE. 



ACHILLES, with his wounded pride, 
Left the Greek tents, and by the sea 
Sat down and told his injury 
To Thetis, underneath the tide. 

His brave soul surged with wrathful grief, 
Resenting Agamemnon's wrong — 
Did not the maid to him belong? 

Why should he yield her to his chief? 

The broad waves crowded to the sand, 
Snow-white and green, and amethyst; 
And Thetis, like a silver mist. 

Came up and soothed him with her hand. 

9 



Oh, when by grief and loss opprest, 
My heart rebels against its fate, 
And lies within my breast a weight, 

Of all, the sorest, heaviest, 

In form of mist, or cloud, or flower, 
In shape of singing bird or bee, 
My Mother, Nature, comes to me, 

And soothes me with her holy power. 



10 



WHITE VIOLETS. 

A STAR fell from the sky at night, 
•**• Through the dim stillness of the blue, 
And sank, a transient gleam of white, 

Where beds of early violets grew. 

It left no vacant place on high. 
It gave to earth no added light — 

But flowers of color like the sky 
Were changed into a starry white. 



11 



DANDELION FASHIONS. 

TJERE and there — everywhere, 

*• '■■ Where the sun is, where the shade is. 

Fresh and sweet on tip-toe feet, 

Stand the dandelion ladies; 
Showy, gay, in spring array. 

Scores of dandelion ladies. 

Green ruffs deck each slender neck; 

Every head has perched upon it. 
Saucy, jaunty, made to flaunt, a 

Little yellow satin bonnet. 
What a place for a pretty face 

Is a yellow satin bonnet! 

This the style for a little while; 

Then, despite the time or weather. 
All unite on a bonnet white, 

12 



Trimmed with a snowy pompon feather- 
Puffy, fleecy, moonshine, breezy 
Thistle-fashioned tuft of feather. 

Here and there — everywhere. 
Where the sun is, where the shade is. 

Satin crown gives place to down — 
Fickle dandelion ladies! 

Blows the wind, and who can find 
One of the dandelion ladies ? 



18 



CAPRICE. 

^ C /^^H, dear me!" cried the April sky; 
^-^ **Oh, dear me — oh, dear me! 
I feel as if I were going to cry 
At every cloud I see." 
Then tears in a sudden flood ran down 
Upon the world, so dusty and brown. 
Till everything in field and town 
Was wet as wet could be. 

" Oh, my! oh, my!" cried the April sky, 

As she bent above the sea, 
"I cannot believe that horrid face 

With wrinkles looks like me!" 
Then she laughed outright at her own frown, 
And green grew the world that was so brown. 
And all the shores and all the town 

Were bright as bright could be. 



14 



WAKE-ROBIN. 

DID the robin — burnt-breast bird — 
When first from the South he came, 
Whistle a hailing word, 
Or call a mystic name? 

And was something, hidden dark 
Under the dead leaves, stirred? 

And did it murmur, " Hark! 
My comrade's voice I heard?" 

And rouse, and begin to grow 

With all the speed it might. 
Until it had lifted— so 

This three-leaved flower white? 

Wake-robin — white as the snow. 

In field and woodland place. 
Nothing more fair can show 

To the northering sun its face. 



15 



THE BLUE BIRD. 

A LEAF from the branching 
Blue of the sky, 
Came floating downward 
From somewhere, up there 
Very high. 

The wind in a frolic 

Blew it along, 
From roof-peak to fence-post. 
When, suddenly, vaguely. 

We heard a song. 

Like a fairy fife 

It whistled clear. 
Sweet to the heart 
That throbbed to hear it, 

Sweet to the ear. 

16 



A leaf sing — a leaf 

From the sky's blue tree? 
A silver echo 
Of songs that sunbeams 

Sing, maybe? 

Ah, no, — 'tis the bird 
That knows so well 

When really and truly 

The winter is going. 
And hastes to tell. 



17 



TRAVERSE TRAILING ARBUTUS. 

nPHAT you should deem the place 
-■■ But a bleak sandy space, 
Flowerless, desolate, little the wonder. 
Till you discover them, 
Stoop and uncover them. 
Hidden so shyly their rusty leaves under. 

Not yet are skies serene: 
With but a breath between, 
Sunshine comes after rain — rain sunshine 
follows; 
In their chill going, slow. 
Lingering wraiths of snow 
Whiten the north hill-sides, haunt the low 
hollows. 

But with a sturdy cheer 
Comes this brave pioneer, 

18 



Daring the wilderness, glad in waste places; 

Indian in moccasin, 

Neighbor and next of kin. 
Though in fair hue itself like the Pale-Faces. 

Housed in such dingy tent, 

Vagrant and indigent 
Surely the dweller is. Be not too certain ! 

All know what lovely eyes 

Look from the beggar's guise 
In the wise fairy tales. Lift up the curtain! 

Never a maiden fair 

Come upon unaware 
Flushed more the rose-leaf hues of Love's sur- 
prises; 

And the air redolent 

With a sweet, subtle scent, 
Makes of the desert a garden of spices. 

Why all this beauty spread 
Here where no foot may tread? 
All its pure mission vain, sadly you ponder. 

19 



Hark to the murmurings 
Through the pine-needle strings ! 
Hark to the whispers of winds as they wander — 

" Vain no created thing — 

Bloom in sand; bird on wing, 
Flying unnoted; nor water of ocean, 

Though it forevermore 

Beat on undiscovered shore; 
Nay, nor the lightest cloud's airiest motion; 

" Nay, nor the gems that shine 
Deep in the deepest mine; 
Nay, nor the dried leaf by Autumn breath 
driven; 
Nay, nor the unexpressed 
Hope in the humblest breast, 
Yearning, aspiring through darkness toward 
Heaven ! 

" He who is Infinite 
Watches with loving sight 
Even obscure bud and dawn-tinted blossom, 



Though never human eye 
Seeks where they lowly lie, 
Prayerful with perfume upon the earth's 
bosom." 



21 



A FAIRY STORY. 

T FIND my fairy stories in a book 
■■^ That all who choose may read: 
Full of strange wonder to the eyes that look, 
And to the hearts that heed. 

To-day the clouds have blotted out the blue; 

Mists hang upon the hill; 
So here's a fairy story that is true 

To keep the children still. 

A little thing flew through the summer air, 

On wings of misty white; 
Loitered and faltered; then, none knowing 
where. 

Sank from her buoyant flight. 

Either she found unwonted dew or green. 
And craved a brief delay. 



Or suddenly some kindred hand was seen 
That beckoned her to stay. 

She halted, stayed, nor evermore began 

That filmy flight again, 
Nor was she missed by any eye of man — 

By wind or sun or rain. 

The spot was on the grass beside the gate, 

Upon a quiet street, 
Through which, day after day, early and late. 

Passed little children's feet. 

And there, after a winter's ice and cold, 

After long weeks of snow, 
Close to the daily beaten path, behold 

Something began to grow. 

The children spied it, knew its pretty name. 

And what it promised knew; 
And paused an instant as they went and came 

To see how fast it grew. 

23 



A dented leaf — from that called lion's tooth; 

A low bud, greenish-gray; 
And then the flower, the dandelion, forsooth, 

So round, so yellow, so gay! 

See it — the humble, shining little thing — 

Just what our tired eyes need. 
The flying fairy of the misty wing ? 

Ah, yes, that was the seed. 



POKE BONNETS 

SHALL I tell of a little lady 
Who, long time ago, 
Went through a quaint old-fashioned garden, 
Tripping to and fro? 

April airs were shivery, chilly — 

Walks were thawy, wet — 
And scarce had a hyacinth or crocus 

Peeped a blossom yet. 

But in a sunny, sheltered corner, 

This small lady knew. 
Always first of the green things hastening. 

Early violets grew. 

There, indeed, this morn she spied them, 

Hosts of tip-toe elves, 
All through the beds and grassy borders. 

Out to sun themselves. 

25 



Crowds and crowds of the dainty creatures, 

Colored a grayish blue, 
As if a bit of sky, in the twilight, 

Had fallen with the dew. 

Happy her eager eyes to see them; 

Scanning each small head. 
All of a sudden a thought came to her. 

And she, laughing, said: — 

"Oh, you little, sweet poke bonnets. 

Now I see from where 
Comes this tilted, comical fashion 

Of the one I wear." • 

This little lady — do you know her? 

Yes, she sits to-day 
Here in her rocking chair — grandmother, 

Quiet and frail and gray. 

While in the same old sunny corner, 

Tip-toe, every one. 
Little poke bonnets crowd, delighted, 

Out to greet the sun. 



THE LILAC. 

'T^HE sun shone warm, and the lilac said: 
* "I must hurry and get 

My table spread, 
For if I am slow, and dinner late, 
My friends, the bees, 
Will have to wait." 

So delicate lavender glass she brought, 
And the dantiest china 
Ever bought: 
Purple-tinted, and all complete; 
And she filled each cup 
With honey sweet. 

"Dinner is ready," the spring wind cried; 
And from hive and hiding 
Far and wide. 
While the lilac laughed to see them come, 



The little gray-jacketed 
Bees came, hum — m! 

They sipped the syrup from every cell, 
They nibbled at taffy 
And caramel. 
Then, without being asked, they all buzzed; "We 
Will be very happy 
To stay to tea." 



THE MIRACLE. 

T AST night the trees were bare 
-^ When we looked out to see, 
Against the sunset-colored air, 

Their complex tracery, 
Like webs of fibred lace 

Between us and the sky, 
With only roughly-budded trace 

Of leaves for by and by. 

From twilight dusk to dawn 

There were no shocks nor jars 
To show strange work was going on 

Under the watching stars; 
No sound of bursting sheath, 

No rending of close chain — 
Only a sudden risen breath 

Of cloud — a soft, sweet rain. 



But see our maples now; 

They need another name! 
Our elms, like last night's, bough for bough, 

Yet not at all the same. 
More leaves are out than could 

The wildest numberer say — 
Transfigured trees, a new-made wood, 

A resurrection day! 

Yet this so quickly wrought — 

This instant, wondrous birth — 
Grew by slow process, thought on thought, 

Out of the hiding earth. 
Unseen and silent grew 

That now so glorifies. 
What miracle can Love not do? 

O, read with grateful eyes ! 



30 



THE DEARER LAND. 

ALONG a sunny southern strand 
The drowsy water lapped the sand, 
As if had grown the wintry sea 
Benign and friendly to the land. 

A shimmering warmth was everywhere, 
For soft as summer blew the air. 

Which, if it rustled in a tree, 
Was sure to find a blue bird there. 

One in his bright, sky-colored coat 
Sat from his singing mates remote. 

Some saddening thought weighed on his mind. 
And checked the warble in his throat. 

"This all is fair, I know," he sighed, 
"Still, there's a dearer land beside, 

81 



*Tis bleakly far, yet I could find 
Its shelter, without light or guide." 

Next day the listening pine trees heard 
An argument of bird with bird. 

"Too early," many cried; but one: — 
**It can no longer be deferred." 

The many in their pleading failed; 
The lonely, homesick one prevailed; 
And so, next morn, at rise of sun, 
The airy fleet of blue wings sailed. 



Later. A Northern morning wild: 
Out of her window looked the child; 
Flurries of snow were flying past; 
Her casement ledge was heaped and piled. 

She looked; and suddenly there flew, 
Before her eyes, a fleck of blue. 

She cried with joy: "He's here at last — 
I knew he'd come, I knew, I knew!" 

82 



He heard the voice, and turned to greet 
The longed-for sound, so gay, so sweet, 
Nor heeded that the bough was cold 
And snowy to his tender feet. 

But sang with all his might and main: 
"Ah, there's my little girl again; 

Ah, there she is — the Locks of Gold — 
To greet me at the window-pane! " 



THE MYSTIC VOICE. 

T^HE wind blows south, and the wind blows 
-'' west, 

And up on an apple-bough, just begun, 
Is a robin's nest. 
And blue-birds look, as they flit and call, 
As if the cup of the sky, overrun, 
Some drops let fall. 

The wind blows east, and the wind blows north. 
Yet crocus-heads, in their pretty caps. 
Are peeping forth. 
Aimless white wings, the snow-flakes fly on, 
Then rest on a grass-blade, or perhaps 
On a dandelion. 

Each has given a willing ear 
To some mystic sign, to some sweet "Hail!" 
That we do not hear. 



And from far lands, and out of earth's prison, 
Without delay, and without fail. 

They sing, they are risen! 

Oh, for an ear and a heart as willing 
All still, small voices within to heed 
To as sweet fulfilling! 
To heed and doubt not: sure that Duty, 

Though her ways may be dull and cold, will 
lead 

To Joy and Beauty. 



35 



HEYDAY, VIOLET. 

HEYDAY, Violet, 
What did you hear 
In your chill bed, 
That you should be lifting 
Your shy head — 
A silken snood 
Knotted as would 

A Puritan maiden 
Her blue hood. 
And in your neck 

So lowly a crook, 
That, however he tries, 
Not once in your eyes 
Can the passer look? 

Ah, Violet, 
I long to know, 



But you'll not confess? 
Then must I study, 

Ponder and guess. 
Was the bird I noted, 
Swift and song-throated, 

Of the color of sky 
All winged and coated, 
That hither flew 

From the warm South, 
As he passed you, mute? 
Or with silver flute 
In his sweet mouth? 

Dear Violet, 
So silent still? 

Then, if not the bird, 
Still other voices 

Perchance you heard — 
A dash and sprinkle 
A rainy tinkle 

On the tin eaves. 
While, with patter and wrinkle, 
The puddles and pools 



Were stirred to dance, 
And with bubble feet 
Did the whole wet street 

Glisten and glance. 

Or, Violet, 
Spake there a sunbeam 

Through the mold, 
King's messenger. 

With proffer of gold? 
Largess outspreading, 
In your lap shedding 

Coin and trinket. 
And ring for a wedding? 
Or did a wind 

Pipe out of the west, 
Call for you, claim you. 
Of all maidens name you. 
Rarest and best? 

Spake Violet: 
" All those I heard, 

Nor was beguiled, 

38 



Nor waked, nor stirred, 
Till a little child, 

Laughing and merry, 

Step like a fairy, 

Searched for me, asked for me 

Eagerly, very. 
Then I lifted my head, 

Shy though it be, 
Out of the grasses, 
That when she passes 

Her eyes will see." 



39 



THE APRIL SHOWER. 

DOWN the drops come, tinkle, tinkle 
With a sudden dash and sprinkle. 
Though as blue as periwinkle, 
Was the sky. 

" Some mysterious hocus-pocus, 
Knocked above us and awoke us," 
Cried a little yellow crocus, 
With a sigh. 

There's a roaring, there's a clatter, 
There's a smoky dash and spatter 
Of the dust, as comes the patter 
Of the drops. 

Such a drencher, such a pelter 
Is it; yet when, helter-skelter, 
Everything has found a shelter, 
Then — it stops ! 



40 



THE HYACINTH BULB. 

I3EHOLD my bulb just putting forth a sheaf 

*^ Of tender green from out its rusty bud ! 

Would the old Greeks have found upon its leaf 

" Ai, ai," and in its flower the young god's 

blood? 

I find a sweeter message written there — 
No cry of woe, no hint of godhood slain, 

But early promise of sun-flooded air, 
Warm, steaming earth and wind-blown, fra- 
grant rain. 

Stored in this humble bit of clod there lies 
Such color as will glad all eyes, I know. 

If bees love blue, then every bee that flies 
Will hasten to it when it comes to blow. 

My heart, oft prone to question and to doubt, 
Says of this curious sphere, so brown, so dull: 

41 



" Soon spikes of blossoms will come bursting 
out." 
Says readily, *' They will be beautiful." 

Ah, since such easy task has Faith to trace 
The future of this bulb from root to bloom. 

Why should Hope flood with anguished tears 
her face 
Above her loved ones hidden in the tomb? 

As from this germ a hyacinth will grow, 

Sure as the springtime, sure as sun and rain. 

Out of their blessed depths of sleep I know 
In God's full season they will rise again. 



42 



AN EASTER FLOWER. 

nPHROUGH all the winter chilly 

*■ There slowly grew a lily, 
From fresh bud thrust above the bulb, 

To soft expanding leaf, — 
Though scant the sunshine that it felt. 

Long as the days were brief. 

We knew a lovely blossom 

Was hid within its bosom, 
And that its one green calyx sheath 

Did tenderly enfold 
A snow-white flower, upon whose breast 

Would shine a dust of gold. 

We watched, and, ah, we waited — 
It seemed so long belated; 
We gave it freely light and drink. 

Though filled with fear and doubt; 



Would ever that green prison burst 
And let its captive out? 

Behold on Easter morning, 

With no unusual warning, 
Our lily stood in perfect bloom 

All gloriously white ! 
And thus our question had reply, 

Our doubt became delight. 

Out from its folded prison 

We felt it had arisen 
To prove to us Life's narrowing bounds 

Will blossom and unclose, 
Until the soul is freed and fair, 

As Christ himself arose. 



44 



THE FLAX BELLE. 



P'OREVER vain of her blue bonnet, 
"■• She nodded her silly head; 
The summer wind blew soft upon it, 
And this is what it said: — 



" Dancing or spinning, which are you doing? 

Lady Flax, with body slim 
Here comes a worthy lover wooing; 

Pray listen now to him." 

On business bent, came humming over 

A big commercial bee; 
His dealings mostly were in clover 

And a lively trade had he. 

The pretty flax began coquetting, 
Nodding her bonnet to him, 

45 



Until, his busy toil forgetting, 
He peeped beneath the brim. 

" Which are you doing — dancing or spinning, 

Your foot so daintily trips? 
My heart is lost in the very beginning, 

I beg to kiss your lips." 

So boldly he pleaded a kiss, he won it — 

" No honey there! " he said — 
" Only a bright blue flaunting bonnet 

On a little empty head." 

So away he sailed, this work-day lover, 

Scorning the flimsy cheat; 
In the plainer walks of weed and clover 

He found enough of sweet. 

Cried the angry wind in a rising passion, 

'' Lady Flax, with bonnet blue. 
Never think with an idle fashion 

To hold a lover true." 



A JUNE MERCHANTMAN, 

ANCHOR weighed, adown the harbor, 
With all her canvas spread, 
And with steady prow and wake of murmur, 
A small grey coaster sped. 

Outward bound she was that morning, 
On the sunny, blue-air sea; 

Rudder to guide her hither, thither. 
And fine gauze sails had she. 

" Whither away, my bonny captain, 

Whither away — away? 
To Red- Rose land, or Pansy islands? 

Or Hollyhock country gay? 

"To the sleeping coast of scarlet Poppy? 
To the Blue-flag's sluggish tide? 

47 



Or to the port where the Water-Lily, 
A gold-oared pinnace rides?" 

" Nay, nay," cried the bonny captain, 

" I sail the blue-air sea 
Straight for plain White Clover harbor, 

In the low Trefoil countree. 

" I shall be loaded with pure sweet honey, 
And pure sweet wax for comb, 

All that a small gray Bee should carry, 
When I come sailing home !" 



48 



THE POPPY. 

WHEN first we spied it growing 
We thought it but a weed, 
For no one that we knew of 
Had planted a poppy seed. 

But suddenly where our weed was 

A crimson flower stood, 
So dainty and bright we named it, 

Our little Red Riding Hood. 

We said: "See how she carries 
That sweetly drooping head, 

And the burnous upon her shoulders 
Is just the proper red. 

"No doubt she is on her way now 
To grandmother's in the wood, 

With cakes and a pat of butter — 
This little Red Riding Hood." 



A cloud — of a hand's breadth only — 

A sudden, gusty stir — 
And in one breezy minute 

Nothing was left of her. 

Had a wolf come from the forest 
And caught her where she stood? 

Ah, the wind was the wolf that ate her- 
Our little, Red Riding Hood. 



THE BOBOLINK. 

^^TJELLO/' cried bobolink, "hello !" 
■*■"■■ As he ran up the stair 
Of the sweet June air, 
And called to a bee below: 
"Say there, say there, 
Bee, keep away there! 
I am here to watch you, 
Fly— or I'll catch you!" 
And across the clover red 
The bee fled. 

Then bobolink laughed — "What fun !' 

And further up the stair 

Of the sweet June air 
Climbed till he spied a hare run. 

She now and then hurried, 

Now and then tarried; 

51 



As he, loud and clear, 
Shouted "Out of— out of here !" 
Then swifter than the bee 
Fled she. 

The bobolink gurgled, "Ho, ho !" 
And down the sunny stair 
Of the sweet June air 
He ran to his nest below. 
Lady wife tittered, 
While he bubbled, twittered, 
"Big rabbit, little bee 
Are both afraid of me!" 
"'Tis because you are so noisy," 
Said she. 



THE SPINNER. 

A H, I think I hear a sound, 
'**' Something humming round and round. 
Is it wings astir, a flutter, 
Just outside my window-shutter — 
Whir, whir, 
Soft as old gray pussy's purr? 

May be moth in foolish flight, 
Lured here by my candle-light. 

Eager but to reach the burning 

Out of which is no returning. 
Soft of wing. 
Newly-fledged and fluttering. 

White the moon shines through the pane; 

It is neither wind nor rain; 

But I'll see when morn uncloses. 
Fair and pink, my sweet-brier roses, 

53 



What it is 
Makes such whirring sound as this. 

Out I look upon the dawn, 
Sound of spinning wheel is gone. 

Half unfolded roses cluster, 

And a web of silken luster 
Hangs and sways 
In the early morning rays. 

Did the spider make the whir 

As she spun this gossamer? 

Patient, slow from the beginning, 
Real old-fashioned, great- wheel spinning, 
Thread by thread. 

Back and forth with busy tread. 

All I know is, something kept 

Fluttering, rustling till I slept; 
And behold this fabric shining. 
White as mist with silver lining! 
I believe 

I did hear her spin and weave. 

54 



A WEATHER PROPHET. 

IT rains; this morning on a tree, 
^ We heard a low, shrill chirring; 
We searched to find it carefully. 
For well we knew the rogue must be 
A little tree-frog purring. 

Blue as a larkspur was the sky; 

The bees went booming, humming; 
While clouds like fair, slow ships sailed by; 
No sign was there to any eye 

Of sudden rain-storm coming. 

But chirr! he piped, and chirr! and chirr-r 1 

The children sighed, " Provoking !" 
Quite out of sorts, indeed, they were 
That that small hidden thing should stir 
The sweet air with his croaking. 



Their play was planned for out of doors 
When first they heard him calling, 

And now a heavy darkness lowers; 

Rain pattered first, and now it pours 
As if the sky were falling. 

I fancy he will find some chink, 

With twigs and leaves for cover, 
Where he can safely sit and blink, 
And thrust his nose out for a drink, 
Until the rain is over. 

You'd like to see him some fine day? 

Only quick eyes can find him. 
He has a most mysterious way 
Of being gray, if bark is gray. 

Green, if there's green behind him. 

His guesses are not always right 

To the extent of bringing 
A thunder rack of black insight; 
Yet sweet as the whistle of Bob White 

Is the little tree-frog's singing. 

56 



THE CHIMNEY SWALLOWS. 

5'T^IS a puzzle indeed 
^ I cannot read, 
As to what is the earthly sense or need 

For these little things, 

With their swift wings, 
To turn from the bough that tosses and swings, 

And to choose as the best 

Nook for a nest 
The very last place one would have guessed, 

When the summer tide, 

So warm and wide, 
Flows sunny and sweet on every side. 

The chimney top ! — 
Nay, they do not stop 
Even at that point, for down they drop — 
Down out of the light, 

57 



Where 'tis dark as night, 
And the soot is the only thing in sight. 

Just think of a bird 

That never heard, 
As a baby, leaves above him stirred; 

Nor the lullabies 

Of the wind's soft sighs 
To bring the sleep to his little eyes ! 

But instead, four grim 

Black walls, and a dim 
Far speck of the blue sky over him. 

Are all he sees! 

What sights are these 
A little king of the air to please ? 

Nor sound is here 

For the song-tuned ear 
Except the flight of the mother near. 

His own sharp cries 

Have for replies 
But her common comfort of bugs and flies. 

58 



And when, ere long, 

His wings grow strong. 
And he flies with the rest of the twittering 
throng. 

How can he know 

Which way to go, 
Where all is dazzle and song and glow ? 

If it fell to me 

To suddenly see 
So much strange color and life and glee, 

Or fell to you. 

What should we do ? 
Why, I think perhaps we might fly too. 



THE RUSHES. 

SUCH fun the rushes have, 
With nothing else to do 
But paddle, paddle in the water 
All the day through. 

In a shallow pool 

By the river's brim. 
There is room for thousands of them, 

They're so very slim. 

All about their feet 

Crinkly ripples run; 
Now and then a minnow swimmer 

Glances in the sun. 

Hither, too, and thither, 

Right before their eyes — 
Long and slender darning needles — 

Flit the dragon flies. 



Do the rushes laugh? 

Yes, in their soft way; 
And they whisper to each other 

All the time and say: 

" Oh, isn't it fine fun 
With nothing else to do, 

But paddle, paddle in the water 
All the day through?" 



61 



THE WATER LILY. 

'T^HE midnight face of the mountain lake 
-*■ A mask of silver wore, 
With sombre locks of fern and brake 
Fringing the dusky shore. 

I saw among the myriad stars, 

Floating therein serene, 
A boat with golden masts and spars 

And oars of emerald green. 

A merry chorus, low and sweet 
As the summer hum of bees, 

And the graceful beat of dancing feet 
Came to me on the breeze. 

It anchored — every gleaming oar 
Fell from the rower's hands; 

The fairies lightly stepped to shore 
Upon the shining sands. 



At morn I sought it — found not them 
Who gay moon-tryst had kept, 

But moored upon its swaying stem 
A water-lily slept. 



BY THE BROOK. 

[3 RIGHT in the sunny spaces, 
'-^ Dark in the shady places, 
Glides the brook with tinkling tones, 
Over the smoothly-polished stones. 
Lisps, and whispers, and seems to think: 
"Run I must, run swift and cool, 
For further on, by the quiet pool, 
The thirsty grasses wait to drink." 

Then as it onward passes, 

Greetingly, meadow-grasses 
Bow their long green bodies low. 
"See, little brook, how fast we grow ! 
Nests, the cosiest, homelike things. 

Hide with their young birds at our feet: 

That is why, so noisy and sweet, 
Bobolink with his neighbor sings." 

6ft 



Then from the waving cover, 

Bubbling, brimming over, 
Bobolink flies up to shout 
Some of his pent-up music out. 
"I rise to tell you," he twitters fast, 

"If some of you are scared to hear 

The sound of a foot-fall drawing near, 
Tis the dear little school-girl going past.' 

She moves along the meadow 

Followed by fairy shadow. 
That tries to be as light and fleet 
As are her happy bounding feet. 
Tinkles the brook from place to place, 

Nod the grasses, and sings the bird, 

As on she goes, with never a word, 
But only a smile on her sunny face. 



65 



THE SPIDER WEB. 

WHO but a fairy 
Ever lived in a house so airy? 
A bit of cloud tied fast as it were, 
And framed of the finest gossamer — 
A wonderful, shining, silky house, 
Swaying here in the sweet-brier boughs. 
Sprite of some kind — Queen of the air — 
Must needs be the one for a home so fair. 

Does she, I wonder, 
Stand these pale-pink blossoms under, 
Dressed in a skirt of vapory blue, 
All spangled over with drops of dew? 
Does she wear a crown, and in her hand 
Carry aloft a long gold wand? 
Has she wings to fly with, gauzy, green? 
And where are the folk she rules as queen? 



I look and linger, 
And touch the web with careful finger; 
When — in an eager, crafty way — 
Out leaps a little gnome in gray! 
The tiniest ogre that ever sate 
And watched for prey at his castle gate: 
His eight long arms so strong and bold 
With which to seize, and strangle, and hold ! 

Should he discover 
Some truant creature passing over — 
A bee or fly on tired wing 
Careless and fond of loitering, 
I wonder if a mimic roar 
Would reach its ears from out his door: 
" Fe, fi, fo, fum ! Fe, fi, fo, fum ! 
I will have some ! I will have some !" 



67 



A FANTASY. 

GOLD-RIBBED and silken-sailed from rose 
to rose, 
With honey laden, fairy wild bees break 
The currents of the air with steady prows, 
Leaving a surge of humming in their wake. 

The wind sways with its music all the trees 
Whose leafy whispers make the bird-hearts 
beat; 

While soft cloud-fleets sail heaven's azure seas, 
Vast phantom navies ride the billowy wheat. 

Black water-spiders spin swift webs of light 
Moving upon the still face of the spring; 

And bending ferns upon the pebbles white 
Their graceful forms in quiet shadows fling. 

The fishes stirring in the water clear, 

Bind nets of sunlight on their golden scales; 



The water-lilies ride at anchor near 

With sides of shining green and waxen sails. 

I hear the tiny mermen's laughter sweet, 
Sporting the swaying water-weeds among, 

And in the rustling brook are sounds of feet, 
Quick beat of drums and shouts of merry 
song, 

With click of many a pebble Castanet 
As in an eager multitude they flee 

Through the pure freshness of the rivulet 
On to the bitter, million-peopled sea. 



60 



JUNE. 

/^^UT in the meadows clangor and din! 
^-^ Bobolinks jubilant over the clover, 
Poised above it or hidden in; 
Reeling, shouting song upon song — 

Shouting the same tune over and over, 
Drunken with melody all day long. 

Over the uplands, idle, cool, 

Truant winds with the sunshine wander. 
Wrinkling the sleeping face of the pool — 
Swaying the rose's graceful head 

That bends its blushing cheeks to ponder 
The sweet false words the bees have said. 



70 



THE FIREFLIES. 

WE watched the fireflies flashing 
Through the dusk and dewy air, 
Like a gleam of wandering lanterns, 
Here and there. 

"What bright-winged and jeweled creatures 

Must those small things be," we said, 
**May be gold and silver, may be 
Burning red." 

So we caught one, soft out-flashing 

Near us, bore him tenderly 
To a light within, that better 
We might see. 

Well, and was his body golden. 

Gilded round with burnished rings? 
And did quills of silver feather 
Make his wings? 

71 



No; we found our fine light-giver 

Just a small, plain, gray-brown fly, 
With no outward sign of splendor 
To the eye. 

And we thought one cannot always 

Take the garment as a sign 
Of how far and bright some inner 
Light may shine. 



72 



THE WASP'S HOUSE. 

\/0U call them hateful little things, 

-■■ Whose airy wings 
Bear them aloft, as a thistle's crown 
Is blown by a zephyr up and down. 
You fly with dread, or shrink with fear 
If one of them simply pauses near. 

See here, beneath the vine-hung eaves, 

Where trailing leaves 
Hide it, as if it had not been. 
Is the little house the wasps live in; 
Made of wonderful paper, gray, 
As if worn by the weather many a day. 

I wonder what would be inside, 

If open wide. 
Upon noiseless, silken hinges hung 

73 



Some secret door or casement swung, 
And we such a hasty glance might cast 
As a swallow does in sailing past. 

Would we see a fairy palace, where 

A silver stair 
Of filigree wire runs to seek. 
Through many a story, the topmost peak, 
And the spacious rooms and vaulted halls 
Have floors of wax, and waxen walls? 

Or would it be a prison grim. 

Where heavy and dim 
The air is ever with sounds of pain, 
Of bolt and bar and of prisoner's chain; 
And where the captives, held to die. 
Are shrunken of limb and sad of eye? 

Ah, neither; listen the harmless hum, 

As go and come 
Those little people, who, day by day. 
Have toiled and wrought with the paper gray ! 
Nothing of mystery is in this; 
But only a simple Home it is. 

74 



And cheerily, with the sweet bread 

Of honey fed, 
Therein the young ones wait their wings. 
And though we may think wasps hateful things, 
Yet surely we must have the grace 
To own that their house is a cosy place. 



75 



MORNING. 

nPHE doors that night had barred with dark, 
■*• Morn opens with a golden key, 
And in her lightning-winged barque 
Comes flashing o'er the sea. 

Heaven, with her dusky mask thrown off, 
Smiles gloriously to see her come; 

Waves, whispering of her beauty, doff 
Bright caps with plumes of foam. 

Gray mists steal backward at her glance; 

Breezes leap up, to wake and stir 
The June leaf-pulses, in a dance 

That shakes the gossamer. 

The lips of Silence part to sing: 

And startled Echo's thousand throats. 

Mid hum of bee and flash of wing, 
Repeat the wondrous notes. 

76 



Oh, Morn of Hope, within my soul, 
That bursts the bonds of grief and doubt, 

Thus let all gladness inward roll 
As night and fear go out ! 



77 



HARVEST MOONSHINE. 

T^HE round moon comes from the distant seas 

-*■ With a silvery softness in her light, 
And the dusky trunks of the forest trees 
Gleam, pillars of marble, tall and white. 

The hill crouches down 'neath the sky's cool 
calm, 

With its tawny mane of ripened wheat, 
Like a lion under a towering palm 

After its chase in the desert heat. 



78 



CLAD IN GRAY. 

LITTLE housewife bee, 

Fussy and gray was she, 

Hummed at the clover tops continuously. 



A 



The summer day was fair, 
And through the sunny air, 
The birds on breath of song soared every- 
where. 

She had no colored coat. 
No gold band at her throat, 
Nor painted wings to flutter with or float. 

A sort of grizzled fur 
Wrapped and encompassed her. 
Except her wings of faded gossamer. 

79 



Her voice was low and fine; 
I heard her drone and whine; 
I saw her heedless of the song and shine; 

And yet it seemed that none 
Under that summer sun 
Was any happier than this busy one. 

The idle and the gay 
Went on their careless way, 
Nor noted the little housewife clad in gray; 

And yet, I thought, how sweet 
The honey she could eat: 
How cool the clover must be to her feet ! 

The wholesome element 
Of Labor's true content 
Was through her humble, plodding presence 
lent 

To a day otherwise 
Given to butterflies. 
That fluttered but to vanish from the eyes. 

80 



THE QUAIL. 

■\ X /"HEN the fields were ripened 
^ * And the woods were red, 
To her little flock of chickens 
Mother Quail said: 
"Here's a lesson for you! 
Be sure you say it right, 
Whistle, now whistle — 
Bob, Bob, White !" 

"Oh, mother dear," they quavered 
"That's the name, perhaps. 
Of the roving farmer boy 
Who sets quail-traps ! 
If we sing together. 
Out he might run, 
To shoot your little children 
With his dreadful gun !" 
8i 



Mother Quail was troubled, 
She glanced at the sky: 
"Clouds are rather black, I think 
'T will rain by and by. 
So here's another lesson 
That is better yet, 
Whistle, now whistle — 
More, more wet." 



82 



GRASS GIPSIES. 

\ 71 /"HY, here is a camp, 

^ ^ On the wayside grass ! 
Let's look at the tents 

Before we pass. 
Beaded with dew 

Is every one — 
Ah, 'tis only webs 

The spiders have spun. 

They are gipsies. Think 

When night fell down, 
How they set to work. 

So tiny and brown. 
To pitch these tents — 

Each gathering boughs 
To kindle a fire 

Before his house. 

83 



How a grandmother sat 

Under the flap 
Of a tent, and rocked 

A babe in her lap ! 
And how on a stick 

A kettle was hung, 
That to cook their supper 

Bubbled and sung. 

How swarthy youths 

Took their guitars, 
And played serenades 

To the far stars; 
And shadows danced wildly 

All about, 
Till the low red fire 

Had faded out ! 



84 



ON AN OCTOBER THISTLE. 



U' 



GH! Shriveled and cold, 
Bald-headed and old, 
They stop at a thistle-top to warm — 
The burly wingers. 
The honey singers, 
The veterans left from the summer swarm. 

First Bee: — Ah, me! 

To have lived to see 
Gray hairs and grief and poverty ! 

To have grown so old 

That my bands of gold. 
Bright yellow once, are dim with mold ! 

I, such a fop 
That I could not stop 
At any but snow-white clover-top. 
To bow ray head, 



And beg for bread 
From only a common weed, instead ! 

Second Bee: — Hello ! 

Why, I've let go ! 
My fingers fail, they have weakened so. 

The most to be said 

Of this thistle-head. 
As a first-class inn, is, that it's red. 

Why, in my day. 

To have come this way. 
Was to meet all Bee-dom, blithe and gay. 

There was all the sweet 

That we could eat, 
But tiow — Hello! I've lost my feet ! 

Third Bee : — Egad ! 

Zounds! but I'm mad, 
Such a wretched time as I have had. 

My voice has grown 

Hoarse as a bone. 
That once was the silveriest baritone. 



Indeed, it's rough 

To bark and cough, 
Till the skin of one's throat is all worn off. 

And to be pointed out 

As having the gout, 
Because I have grown a little stout ! 

So, there they pined. 

And droned and whined. 
And grumbled and buzzed till the sun went 
down. 

Next day — alas ! 

Upon the grass 
Lay three little shrunken tufts of brown. 



THE CRICKET'S TALE. 

^^i^^OOD morning, Mr. Cricket, 

^^ How did you sleep last night? 
Sure, never was the sky so clear, 

The moon so big and white. 
I listened to the concert 

Your friends gave. Certainly 
They played with more than usual skill 

That blue-grass symphony." 

He sat in the sunshine, rubbing 

His arms and back and knees. 
And shook his bulgy head and sighed: 

"Don't ask me, if you please. 
For I never closed a winker ! 

We played the concert through, 
Though I scraped those blessed fiddle-strings 

Up to my chin in dew. 

F8 



"My friend with the hurdy-gurdy, 

And the one with the flageolet, 
The bagpipe man and the bugle-blower 

Were drenched and dripping wet. 
And just in the very thickest 

Of baritone and bass, 
A misty, ghostly-looking thing 

Came stealing by the place. 

"I felt a chill like the ague 

Go crawling up my spine; 
And my neighbor with the castanets 

Begged for a sip of wine; 
And the tenor in his solo 

Coughed between every note. 
And the little soprano lady tied 

A kerchief round her throat. 

"The pipes whined shrilly, feebly; 

One quaver the bassoon blew; 
Then all, as if of one accord 

Stopped short, and shuddered, 'Ugh I' 

89 



Not another chirrup they ventured, 

Jingle, tinkle or clink ! 
Now, who was that misty, ghostly thing?' 

I said, "Jack Frost, I think." 



90 



METEORS. 

TT snows— for whitely through the dark 
And silence of the autumn night 

Has fallen many a gleaming spark; 

And yet the meadows are not white. 

Late flowers bow their heads in sleep; 

With plaint the night bird keeps awake; 
The moon swings on her light lines deep 

In the blue waters of the lake. 

The wind sobs fitfully; the trees 

Weep faded leaves to prove their woe, 

That once in answer to the breeze 

But song-notes gave and whispers low. 

Yet skies are clear— it is not snow, 

No cloud frowned from the face of even- 
But weeds the hands of ange-ls throw 

From out the star-flower garden. Heaven. 

91 



FRINGED GENTIANS. 

00 long had the October skies 
^^ Worn frown of cloud and rain, 
It seemed as though my tired eyes 

Would never see again 
What they so loved — the tender hue 
Of heaven's own blue. 

1 watched in vain for brightening streaks 

As dawned or died the day; 
But still the distant mountain peaks 

Wore cowls of misty gray; 
Nor gleamed one shining hand-breadth through 
Of heaven's own blue. 

I sought a lonely country road, 

With bare fields at each side, 
Where late the golden-rod had glowed 

In all its plumy pride — 



Lo, something at the wayside grew 
Of heaven's own blue. 

Fringed gentians — each one bearing up 

Atop its humble stem, 
As with an arm aloft, a cup; 

I paused to look at them — 
As deep a tint they wore, as true 
As heaven's own blue. 

I had so missed the sky's dear face. 

Its color and its light; 
Yet here in this deserted place 

Was something just as bright — 
The bluest thing I ever knew 

Except heaven's blue. 

Thus, often when the joys of earth 
Are dimmed, or disappear, 

Lo, humbly in the wayside dearth 
We find some other cheer — 

Some lowly flower that wears the hue 
Of heaven's own blue. 

93 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

A UTUMN— an Indian red and old, 
^^ Whose heart was throbbing faint and 

slow, 
Wished ere it grew forever cold 
To be at peace with all below. 

Round the frost-kindled council-fire 
Gathered the tribes from far and near; 

Last words this dying chief and sire 
Would speak that day, and all must hear. 

His weak hand grasped a calumet — 

A reed for stem, a red clay bowl. 
The whole with bits of feather set — 

He filled it — lit it with a coal, 

Then spake to them: " My race is run: 
My feet — no longer swift — are bound 

94 



Far past the setting of the sun 
Into the happy hunting ground. 

" So warriors, brothers, braves, to-day 
Our hands v/ill meet, our strifes will cease. 

Smoke with me in last friendly way 
This pipe — this calumet of peace. 

** Now I have done." His gray head bent 

As bends a corn-ear fully ripe. 
And round the dusky circle went, 

From lip to lip, the lighted pipe. 

Up from the forest council-fire 

A cloud of azure vapor broke, 
Veiled with soft haze the sky entire. 

And mantled all the earth with smoke. 



95 



THE WHITE DEER. 

T LOOKED upon a cloudless night 
^ And saw a white deer bounding past 
Where fetters of the cold moonlight 
Held all the forest shadows fast. 

His hoofs were silver, and they beat 

So silently the dewy sod, 
I said: ''They're shod like goblin feet; 

At morn I'll find the path they've trod. 

" The jewel-weed and asters grow 

In tangles by the river's brink. 
This is his run-way, and I know 

He's going there to graze and drink." 

When the first sunbeams ran — alas! 

The pathways where the white deer crossed, 
I found upon the glistening grass 

The foot-prints only of the Frost. 

96 



GOLDEN-ROD. 

A N idle breeze strayed up and down 
-'^ The rusty fields and meadows brown, 

Sighing a grievous sigh: *'Ah, me ! 

Where can the summer blossoms be?" 
When suddenly a glorious face 
Shone on him from a weedy space, 

And with an airy, plumy nod, 

"Good afternoon," said Golden-Rod. 

The breeze received her courtesy. 
And then came hurrying home to me, 
And eagerly this story told: 
" I've seen a lady dressed in gold. 
So shining that the very light 
That touches her is doubly bright — 
She nodded, too, a royal nod." 
"Why, that," I said, "is Golden-Rod." 

97 



"Come out and see her where she stands, 

Gold on her head and in her hands," 
He cried; and I without delay 
Went after where he led the way; 

And there she stood, all light, all grace, 

Illumining the weedy place, 
And to us both, with airy nod, 
"Good afternoon!" said Golden-Rod. 



98 



THISTLE DOWN. 

NEVER a beak has my white bird 
Nor throat for song, 
But wings of silk by soft wind stirred, 
Bear it along. 

With wings of silk and a heart of seed, 

O'er field and town. 
It sails, it flies — some spot has need 

Of a thistle down. 



99 



A FOGGY MORNING. 

A SMALL, close world it seems to-day, 
With fog about us, chill and gray, 
As if had giant spiders spun 

Their webs between us and the sun. 
Nor any wind had strength to stir 
Their leagues on leagues of gossamer. 

Dim shapes of elm and locust wait 
Like shadowy sentinels at the gate; 

They outline 'gainst the ghostly white 
The utmost limit of our sight; 

There are no streets, no passers-by. 
No spire, no mountain-peak, no sky. 

And yet a strong wind rushing forth. 

With cool fresh breath, from out the north, 
Would part this cobweb vail in twain 

100 



And bring the sweet world back again- 
The blue of sky, the fervid sun, 
And all bright things he shines upon. 



101 



OCTOBER. 

T EAPS October from the ashes dead 
*-' Of the radiant, glowing-souled September ! 
Now the sun burns in the heavens, red 
As an angry eye, or a far ember. 

To the sky the giant groves of oak 

Arms of dull bronze, acorn-hung, are raising; 
Poplars all are dimly white like smoke; 

All the sumach's minarets are blazing. 

Ripe nuts hang upon the bending trees. 
Like the pendant heads on lily anthers. 

Squirrels, springing, shake them like a breeze — 
Squirrels, black or tawny, lithe as panthers. 

Deer look into wild eyes as they drink, 
Eyes all dark and soft and clear, with wonder; 

102 



Wrinkled waters make the rushes shrink — 
Break their shadowed lengths of green 
asunder. 

Crickets clang their black metallic wings, 
Drowning insect pipings, shrill and slender; 

Tardy bees, begirt with golden rings, 

Hum around the garden's faded splendor. 

All the year's sweet heats and growths are fled; 

All its days are sad; and changed and sober 
All its golden glow, its burning red. 

As it wanes toward winter, through October. 



103 



AUTUMN RAIN. 

T WATCH, the while my window-pane 
•■■ Is drenched with chilly tears, 
To see if once the weather-vane 

Turns from the East, or veers; 
But blurring, blinding, falls the rain 

Until the twilight nears. 

And then across the stormy sky 

I see a brightening rift; 
Like wings almost too weak to fly, 

The gray clouds slowly drift. 
Till suddenly my waiting eye 

Beholds them rise and lift; 

Uprise, uplift, till they disclose 

The old-time, tender blue, 
Like a vast azure lake, that shows 

Bright islands scattered through — 

104 



Islands of purple, pearl and rose, 
And every sunset hue. 

If but the thrushes lingered yet, 

How surely should we hear, 
From some tall tree-top in the wet. 

Their music sweet and clear, 
Ready all darkness to forget 

Soon as the light shines near. 

But days are short, and birds are few; 

And leaves let go their hold 
From frosted twig and bough, to strew 

The ground with faded gold; 
And long ago the songsters flew; 

The year is growing old. 

Be thou, then. Heart, the thrush to sing ! 

Take on thyself that part. 
Though heavy with much sorrowing, 

And doubts, and cares, thou art. 
Fair morrow will red sunset bring; 

Sing gratefully, O Heart 1 

105 



HOAR FROST. 

\ X TAKE early, Gold Locks, come and look ! 
' ' The grass is all a shining white. 
As if above it in the night 
Their wings a flock of snow-clouds shook 

And scattered here and there a plume ! 
Or, rather, white, as I have seen 
Upon it, in its first young green, 

The fallen showers of orchard bloom. 

A winter crisp is in the breeze, 
A winter dazzle on the lawn. 
As, flushed and summer-like, the dawn 

Comes up from out its crimson seas. 

The keen frost-crystals, starlike, plain, 
Vanish before it from our view. 
First they become a shower of dew, 

And then a dripping shower of rain. 

106 



*T were lovely, if we need not know 
That in an hour the aster beds, 
With all their purples, all their reds. 

Such blackening change must undergo; 

And that the woodbine, which has grown 
Of late so like a kindling flame, 
Bent, as if overcome with shame, 

Will all its loosened leaves drop down. 

Somehow, the autumn signs dismay 

With symbols the foreboding heart. 
Since Life sees its own counterpart 

Always in blossom and decay 

Ah, child, — my fancy runneth so — 

Time's dread hoar-frost, as white and cold 
As this, must some day touch the gold 

That has such live, bright overflow 

Upon your little head — almost 

Too shining and too warm a braid 
It seems now, as it hangs, to fade 

Under the touch of any frost ! 

107 



Yet will it come, I know. But when 
This ruddy color silvered is 
I may not be where I shall miss 

Its tender earthly sunshine. Then 

Heaven shall, perhaps, have satisfied. 

And you, in that far time, which seems 
Too distant even for my dreams, 

Will have your own dear fireside; 

Perhaps a little grandchild, too. 

Which you will guard with heart and eyes- 
As now the two gray heads you prize 

And love, so watch and cherish you. 

^ vj& vp ¥^ 7^ 7^ 

See ! while in reverie Fancy hath 
So fleetly run to that far land. 
Upon whose vague, untrodden sand 

She fain would trace your future path. 

The aster stalk has bent its crown 
Of purple, or of red, indeed, 
While slowly, as if wounds did bleed, 

The woodbine leaves are dropping down. 

108 



AUTUMN SUNSET. 

EACH tree-top waved a crimson crest, 
A burning belt bound every spire, 
As on the hearth-stone of the west 
The evening lit its glowing fire, 

Warm, red; then backward seemed to gaze 
Upon the earth, as one would turn 

From his own cheerful parlor blaze 
To watch the street lamps dimly burn. 

The fire died out; then chill winds blew 
The clouds, like ashes gray and white, 

About the air; in dark and dew 

Came down the gloomy autumn night. 



109 



A TWILIGHT MOUSE. 

■\ Tl rOULD you think a mouse could fly- 
^ ' A mouse with soft, bright eye, 

Clothed in a gray-brown wrap 

Of fur, or silk, mayhap, 
And with clinging, claw-like feet. 
And heart with a panting beat? 

No doubt you are wont to think 
Mice live in a cupboard chink. 
And only in crannies creep, 
To scurry, and blink and peep; 
To nibble at things, or gnaw 
With white teeth sharp as a saw. 

But if not a mouse, what then 

Is this twilight denizen. 
That, without quill or feather. 
Has suddenly fluttered hither, 

110 



And that we, I scarce know how, 
Have made our captive now? 

It is nothing to shudder at; 

It comes with the dusk — the bat. 

It likes the shadows' hue; 

It likes the smell of the dew; 
And perhaps is fond of the far 
Sky-gleam of moon or star. 

Awkward? hideous? — look 

At the end of each wing a hook ! 

These are its fore-feet, see 

It walks so curiously. 
And its black nose? Well, I own 
It does look upside down. 

Feel now how like a drum 

Its tiny heart's wild thrum ! 
And see how the lamp's light 
Dazzles its purblind sight — 

Poor little throbbing thing, 

Give it its silken wing ! 
Ill 



And when next dusk you spy 

A flitting thing go by, 
Think, " That is our prisoner. 
The bat with mouse-like fur 

And vellum wings, that goes — 

Whither, nobody knows!" 



112 



NOVEMBER. 

1~^AMP is the air with coming snow; 

■*— ^ In rustling flocks the dead leaves blow 

Like birds a chilly storm-wind beats. 
I watch, through the imprisoning glass, 
The muffled people, hurrying, pass 
Along the windy streets. 

I have my will, but not my way. 
Else were the distant meadows gay 

With clover bloom and bumble-bees; 
The dun wheat stubble-lands were seen 
Rolling their billows, glistening, green, 

To counterfeit the seas. 

These dull low skies of threatening hue 
Were hung with banners broad and blue; 

Or black, and sharply cloven in twain 

8 

113 



With lightning like a sabre's flash, 
Shaken with answering thunder crash, 
Were spent in sweet warm rain. 

Each green bough swung its singing bird; 
Each living creature had its word 

Of happy love, or joy, or praise; 
Were all that flood of sunshine back, 
Unfelt were the wild loss and lack 

Of these November days. 

I have my will, but not my way, 
Else Yea were the great barrier Nay 

That frowns between me and the Light; 
The future of my dreams were here; 
Hope's far, faint glory dazzled near 

And full into my watching sight; 

Work fell to none but the able hand; 
After brave effort, ample, grand. 

Came the achievement ! — Vain my one 
Weak, human protest; better pray : 
"When my will thwarts Thy righteous way, 

Ever Thy will be done !" 

114 



DARK DAYS AND FAIR. 

/^NE day goes clouded to its close, 
^*^At setting dull as when it rose; 
Another has the sunny blue 
Arched over it from dew to dew; 
More have their mingled phases — rare 
The wholly dark or wholly fair. 

So lives their little orbits run 

Either in shadow or in sun. 

This glad one, noonday tempests smite; 

This sad one, evening glories light 

With unexpected radiance. Rare, 

The wholly dark or wholly fair. 

But Faith has wings for any sky ! 
Send her abroad her powers to try 
When the uplifting airs are warm, 

115 



That, should her flight encounter storm, 
With trial made strong, her wings may dare 
Boldly alike the dark and fair. 

Secure the soul that rests on Faith ! 

Upborne as by an animate breath, 

She soars beyond earth's loss and gloom, 

Beyond the shadow of the tomb, 

With rapture, where is Heaven's free, air 

Wholly unclouded, wholly fair ! 



116 



THE SQUIRREL'S WIGWAM. 

'T'HEY laid it low, 
'- Row upon row , 
The tall straight corn that rustled so. 
Its once rank green was dry and sere — 
Stalk, leaf-blade, tassel, silk and ear 
Shriveled — and of its waving grace 
Only a stiffened, ghostly trace. 

The work all done 

That rain and sun 
Had lavished such sweet care upon ! 
The long ranks where the summer wind 
Could walk, and clouds their shadows find, 
Gathered, and set in shocks to stand 
Lifeless, to wait the husker's hand ! 

117 



Yet presently 

A new degree 
Of grace that cornfield had for me. 
One shock was a true wigwam shape, 
The long leaves just the things to drape 
About the tent-poles, shelter fit 
For what live thing might live in it. 

Now, what if through 

Some chink, a blue. 
Faint smoke-puff should go up, and you 
Should spy a red-man, with a deer 
Slung on his shoulder, drawing near; 
A leather belt, knives dangling there 
And eagle feathers in his hair ? 

A startling phase 

Of wild-wood ways 
'Twould be for these tame modern days; 
But I see something which to me 
Is quite as interesting — he. 
That fine fox squirrel, running fleet 
Towards it with his spry, small feet. 

118 



He'll find the door, 

Be sure ; and more 
He'll find the gold corn-ears in store. 
And till the huskers come to tear 
His wigwam down, will scamper there. 
In, out, small red-man, saucy, slim, 
As if the place were made for him. 



119 



THE FIRST SNOW. 

1 1 riTH dull-red splendor in his gaze, 
^ ^ The sun sank to his nightly rest, 
And clouds whose rims were all ablaze 

Piled mountain-high with gloom the west. 

Without the sunset's golden flush 
To crimson o'er the winter sky — 

To make the leafless tree-tops blush, 
The fields in burning glory lie; 

To wander lonely wilds about. 

Each lowly hut from gloom to win, 

Making a warm fire glow without 

Where warm fires never glowed within; 

To wind a thread of silver light 

Where streams, locked in an icy hold, 

120 



Lay whitely 'mid the forest's blight, 

Their lips of music dumb and cold — 

Nature was desolately drear, 

And told in wailings loud and deep 

A tale of hopeless woe and fear, 

As, wrapped in clouds, she sank to sleep. 

But when the monster Cyclops, Day, 

Shaking the dun locks from his brow, 

Opened his great dull lid of gray, 

The world was beautiful with snow. 



121 



THE ROBIN'S FAREWELL. 

r^ OOD-BYE, old tree, good-bye ! 

^-^ I leave my nest with you; 

You'll need it when your green leaves die, 

And your apples are fallen too; 
Something upon your boughs 

For children to come and see, 
If only a bird's deserted house — 

Good-bye, old apple tree ! 

We were friends from the very first, 

When in the chill March air, 
Before a single bud had burst, 

I found you bleak and bare. 
Even then your branches stirred 

In a kindly, welcoming way. 
As if they knew a lonely bird 

Needed some place to stay. 

122 



And after that you spread 

The greenest, leafiest roof 
That ever sheltered a robin's head, 

Waving, but weather-proof. 
And I remember well 

How every gala breeze, 
Before your pink-white blossoms fell, 

Brought scores of honey bees. 

They hummed their drowsy tune; 

My mate sang loud and sweet; 
And the sun winked, and the quiet moon 

Walked by with silver feet; 
While with my mother-wings 

I brooded the eggs of blue. 
Till those four red-breast little things 

Grew restless and broke through. 

You rocked them every one; 

But now, in the usual way, 
They have learned to fly, and would be gone, 

And so, we are off to-day. 

123 



More than they dream of now 
They'll miss your lullaby, 

Miss every leaf, and twig and bough- 
Good-bye, old tree, good-bye ! 



m 



THE FOUR WINDS. 

THE wind of the south 
Comes over the land, 
With a flute in her mouth 
And a dandelion 

Within her hand. 

Like a giant to wrestle 
Is he of the North, 
Yet a boy to whistle 
In chimney and keyhole 
When he goes forth. 

The wind of the West 
Is a gentle soul. 

And rocks the nest 

And the yellow fledgelings 
Of the oriole. 

125 



Cries the East to the vane, 

"No time to lose, 
It is going to rain, 
Get out your umbrella 
And overshoes !" 

Now, which of these 

Do you like the best — 

The blue-bird's breeze, 

The giant whistler, 

The East or the West? 



120 



SUNDOWN. 

THE day begins to doze: 
Her wide blue eyes are tired of light, 
The sun has glared so fierce and bright. 
So, drawing close her cloudy cap 
About her forehead for a nap, 
From out her western sleeping-place, 
She smiles " Adieu," her broad fair face 
Red as a rose. 

The world of fleece-white snow 
Grows gray and chill; but in the sky 
Winks here an eye and there an eye — 
Winks, blinks, then stays, a keen cold spark, 
To watch the sullen stealthy dark 
Out of its cavern rise and drift, 
As if a river black and swift 

Did overflow. 

127 



Slowly, and not too soon 
To make her radiance the surprise 
And glory of the waiting skies, — 
A silver kite on viewless line, 
Or bubble blown to soar and shine, 
Shedding the hoar-frost of her rays 
Broadcast in one wide luminous haze,- 

Rises the moon. 



X 

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128 



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